


Dance Me to the End of Love

by RoswellSmokingWoman



Series: Songfics [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Tango, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:41:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23369392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoswellSmokingWoman/pseuds/RoswellSmokingWoman
Summary: After the fall, Hannibal and Will settle in Cuba. Times passes, but words remain unsaid. Hannibal decides, of all nights, that tonight must be the night for dancing and for something more.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Songfics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1681891
Comments: 10
Kudos: 131





	Dance Me to the End of Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pensee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensee/gifts).



> This fic is named after the song 'Dance Me to the End of Love' by Leonard Cohen. It is the song Will and Hannibal dance to, if you care to listen to it while reading. :)

The air outside of their villa is hot, humid. The smell of salt is constantly in the air, sand from the beach always finding a way into their shoes. Will must admit, Hannibal is happier here. He isn’t quite sure if it’s because of where they are or if it’s because he’s here with him. Even so, whenever Will looks at Hannibal, there’s a smile on his lips, nearly irremovable. It replaces the normally stoic façade, and there’s no reason for it now anyway. When they are alone together, Hannibal can be himself. He can relax his walls, let them tumble and fall, in front of Will. 

They walk home together, one night, inches apart. Will’s own words, spoken what seems like so long ago, echo in his own mind— _Is Hannibal in love with me?_ He knows it is true, but his own mind isn’t made up on the matter. He had helped Hannibal escape from the mental institution. They had slain the Red Dragon. Will had pushed them over the cliff’s edge, only for both of them to survive. And yet, Will hasn’t come to terms with why. Instead, he exists next to Hannibal. They talk, share glances, and dine together. Hannibal is content with it, even if it progresses no farther—it’s why Will doesn’t mention it. Hannibal Lecter is a fool in love, and Will Graham uses his silence to avoid his own truth. 

Will sighs as they enter their home, the seafoam blue of its walls lighting up when Hannibal flicks on the light switch. Their home smells of Hannibal’s cooking, herbs and tomato; the faintest scent of meat is still in the air. It feels like home, despite its grandeur. A small poodle, still only a puppy, pads forward with a yip. Will kneels down to pet it, “Good girl, Teacup,” he exclaims. She had been so small, shaking on the streets, when they had found her—he could place her in a teacup, she was that small. It was the first thought that ran through his mind, shortly followed by his and Hannibal’s words of teacups and time. Without hesitation, he named her so. He remembers her pink tongue licking his palms fondly. Hannibal had hid his smile that night when Will brought her into his arms, cradling her like an infant.

“Are we off to bed, then?” Will asks Hannibal, looking up from Teacup.

“I’m not feeling tired, are you?” Hannibal turns away from Will, the smile on his face falling. He hesitates, choosing not to say the next words until prompted.

“Not really… Maybe a digestif to lull us to sleep?”

“I have just the bottle for tonight,” Hannibal whispers, walking through their home, down into the cellar to retrieve it. His normal elegance is replaced with a clumsiness, his head looking forward, but his mind wandering elsewhere. He nearly trips over his own feet as he walks. 

Hannibal returns, finding Will in their sitting room, a book in his hands. He imagines that Will hasn't gotten too far into it, perhaps only the first few pages. He doesn't feel guilty to pull Will away from its words. Hannibal pours each of them a glass, handing one to Will, gazing deeply into Will’s eyes. Lifting his head out of the book, Will smiles. “Thank you, Hannibal.”

“My pleasure.” Hannibal saunters over to the old record player on the other end of the room. His heart beats harder in his chest as he searches through the music, pushing records from the left to the right elegantly with his hand. It had been months since they’ve settled into their lives in Cuba; Hannibal had hoped that Will would approach him. Hannibal had hoped that in helping him escape, Will had realized something that he had buried deeply inside of himself. Even though they live civilly together, they are friends. And it is not enough, Hannibal thinks to himself. Even though he wishes to transcend stereotypes, he wants more. 

When all else had failed, when his hopes had been crushed over and over, Hannibal still went on. When Will had named their poodle Teacup, Hannibal had hoped it meant something more. His heart had nearly fled his chest that night in anticipation, almost as if it were running away from its greatest wish in an attempt to avoid the heartbreak it knew would come. The name had been just a name—adorable and fitting for her, but nothing more. Their nightly walks on the beach, the saltwater just covering their toes, when Will was so close yet so unbearably far from him, Hannibal had hoped it all would convey the tempest inside of him. With each passing day, the storm within Hannibal grew, the love crazier and more impatient. It ravages Hannibal now, who struggles to tether himself to stability. It's why, tonight, he can no longer wait. 

He selects a record, lifting it up to his face and reconsidering it for a moment before setting his wine glass down. He places the record on the player, and returns to the other side of the room, where Will leans back into the couch, observing him. The song is an odd choice for Hannibal, Will muses. The first notes ring out into the room, and Will nearly laughs. This couldn't possibly be a song Hannibal would listen to, he wants to say. 

Hannibal extends his hand to Will who remains seated in protest, “I’m a horrible dancer.”

“I can teach you.”

“You will lose your toes, I swear.”

“Then you’ll help me sew them back on.” Hannibal waggles his fingers at Will, his smile drooping a bit from lack of confidence. “Just one dance is all I ask, and I’ll go to bed a happy man.”

“One dance,” Will repeats, taking Hannibal's hand.

Leonard Cohen’s raspy voice fills their room as Hannibal begins to show him the steps. Hannibal leads and Will follows. Hannibal would blame it on the three sips of wine he’d had, his old age which makes him weaker to the effects of alcohol. Will would go along with the words, a kindness to Hannibal. This is what Hannibal hopes for, in the worst case. He can imagine the clumsy and awkward morning with perfect clarity, as if it's already happening. Hannibal keeps his arms steadily around Will, and Will twirls in his arms hesitantly. 

“You know more than you let on,” Hannibal breathes with the slightest laugh.

“I’ve watched people a couple of times.”

“You’re very observant then…”

Their tango is slow, Will watching Hannibal’s feet at first. He improves with each step, the music carrying his feet. Soon their dance flows perfectly, Hannibal holding onto him more gently now.

“Look at me, Will,” Hannibal instructs.

Will lifts his face, finding maroon eyes filled with a ravaging fire. It’s the same fire that were in Hannibal’s eyes that night at the cliffside, the Red Dragon seeming like a distant nightmare. _It’s beautiful_. Will remembers himself uttering, his voice shaky, and his blood boiling with excitement.

He finds himself sinking closer to Hannibal, a heat spreading throughout him. What does this mean? In the dim lights of the room, Will is struck by the angles of Hannibal’s face, the soft curve of his lips. He’d always known that Hannibal was an attractive man, clean shaven and impeccably dressed. But his impression is different now, deeply seeded, the sight of Hannibal is captivating.

“I need to tell you once, just once,” Hannibal begins, and then pauses, the words stuck in his throat.

Hannibal dips Will ever so slightly. Will parts his lips, gasping, waiting for Hannibal’s strong arms to bring him back up. He feels weak now, unsure and trembling. He misses a step, but Hannibal leads him back into the dance.

“What do you need to tell me?” Will finds himself saying, a nauseated anticipation like infatuation building inside of him.

“You aren’t a bad dancer,” Hannibal offers, looking away from Will.

“A good partner doesn’t break eye contact,” Will chastises him, pulling Hannibal’s face closer to his own. “Look at me.”

Hannibal leans into Will, capturing his mouth as a starving man. The kiss nourishes Hannibal with just the taste of Will—realizing that for his entire life he had never been satisfied by anything, by anyone, before the taste of Will Graham. He deepens the kiss, slipping his tongue into Will’s mouth. He hopes, he prays, that Will will not push him away.

Just as in their dance, Will allows for Hannibal to lead, returning the kiss timidly at first. It shocks Will how it doesn’t feel wrong to kiss Hannibal. How Hannibal’s touch is instantly soothing and maddening all at once. He craves more, pressing into Hannibal’s lips harder. He buries his hands in Hannibal’s hair, pulling ever so lightly, drawing a moan from the other man.

Hannibal parts from Will, the last notes of the song playing out. “I love you,” Hannibal finally admits, his face preemptively heartbroken.

Will stands, silent, his arms dropping to his sides. He’d always known it, but to hear it was shocking. The had stabbed each other, tortured each other, broken each other. And yet, he would take no one else, he would want no one else. Hannibal grabs the glass of wine and begins to walk out of the room, the sound of his footsteps like the dull pitter-patter of defeat.

“Hannibal,” Will calls after him.

Hannibal turns around instantly, his hand shaking. He is undone, naked now. “You don’t--” Hannibal begins.

“But I love you,” Will protests, approaching Hannibal, “I love you,” he repeats. And it’s true, Will knows it. The words come out of his mouth unexpectedly, but Will does not regret them. He hadn’t known until saying them, how deeply his feelings ran for Hannibal for all of this time. Perhaps since their first meeting even, the seed of love had been planted. It had sprouted as a weed, tangling up in Will’s every organ, but even weeds do flower.

“Will,” Hannibal breathes, taking the other man into his arms once more, the glass of wine falling from his hand. Their embrace is different now, their words giving it new meaning.

“One more dance, please,” Will begs him, his blue eyes soft and tempting.

Hannibal can only oblige, returning to the record player, selecting a new song. When he turns around, Will is behind him, waiting. It’s only then that he feels he truly has Will, to hold in his arms, to keep. It fills the empty spots in his soul to the point of bursting. 


End file.
